"You're the man I mean; you're Terry Hollis, Black Jack's son?"
Terry imitated the others and did not reply.
"Oh, they ain't any use beating about the bush. You got Black Jack's
blood in you. That's plain. I remember your old man well enough."
Terry rose slowly from his chair.
"I think I'm not disputing that, sheriff. As a matter of fact, I'm very
proud of my father."
"I think you are," said the sheriff gravely. "I think you are--damned
proud of him. So proud you might even figure on imitating what he done in
the old days."
"Perhaps," said Terry. The imp of the perverse was up in him now, urging
him on.
"Step soft, sheriff," cried Pollard suddenly, as though he sensed a
crisis of which the others were unaware. "Terry, keep hold on yourself!"
The sheriff waved the cautionary advice away.
"My nerves are tolerable good, Pollard," he said coldly. "The kid ain't
scaring me none. And now hark to me, Black Jack. You've got away with two
gents already--two that's known, I mean. Minter was one and Larrimer was
two. Both times it was a square break. But I know your kind like a book.
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